The Sword and the Pledge
by DezoPenguin
Summary: A sword to be crafted. A vow to be made. The Ivory King seeks one, to aid him in the other. The story of the crafting of the blade that bears a city's name, and of what it meant to its owner.


The heat of the flames washed over Boldine as she hammered. Her arm rose and fell with relentless energy, driving the great sledge down onto the red-hot metal with raw force and precision alike. Sparks from the blaze scarred the thick canvas of her apron, and sweat trickled down her bare arms, caught by the thick cuffs at her wrists so as not to make her grip on hammer or tongs slippery.

The burning ember of her forge shone at her as she worked, burning with hot, relentless fury. She'd brought it with her from Forossa, she and her late master, when they'd followed the Ivory King northward, and she was glad of it. The fires of Eleum Loyce were thought treacherous by many, necessary to stave off the cold of this bitter wasteland and yet symbolic of the true fire that burned beneath the garrison and the great cathedral, the old chaos flame that the rampart city had been raised to contain. Superstition held that any flame kindled here held a spark of that chaos, and had to be watched more carefully than a normal fire, for it held a will of its own.

She didn't believe it, herself, but maybe there was some truth in it. If nothing else, the Forossan ember did give rise to a forge-fire that burned hotter and truer than those the local-born smiths used, so there was truth in her own arts, even if no denigration to others.

"Mistress Boldine!"

The smith jerked upright, her hammerstroke falling awry and the metal parting under the blow with a wrenching crack.

"Damn your eyes, boy," she roared, rounding on her shop-boy. "How many times have I told you to never interrupt me at the forge? This metal's ruined now, fit for horseshoes at best."

"B-but, Mistress Boldine, you have a customer."

"So? What do I pay you for? By Faraam, this is what comes of not taking a proper apprentice!"

He swallowed, face pasty.

"I—I thought that you should see—"

Boldine sighed heavily.

"What? What's so special about this one?"

"Well...that is...I thought that..." he stammered.

She sighed again.

"Fine. Let's see this person who's got you so tongue-tied."

She set her hammer down and started towards the forge-room door, when that door was suddenly filled by a heavily cloaked figure looming up behind the boy.

"Forgive me," he said. "I thought I'd best step in at once." The voice was deep and rich, even muffled as it was by the cloth of the hood and the scarf wound around his lower face. It held an odd familiarity to it, though, some echo that teased at her.

The shop-boy nearly jumped out of his shoes, though, as he hadn't noticed the man's approach. Admittedly, the boy'd had his attention on his employer, but the customer still had the soft step of a warrior, a man who was used to controlling his weight and balance.

"Oh, go mind the door," she waved him away. "You've done enough damage. And don't let anyone else back here, even if Old Chaos comes knocking."

"Yes, Mistress!" he squeaked, and darted out past the cloaked man. Boldine reached past him and pulled the heavy wooden door shut, then after a moment's pause threw the bolt.

"A child who errs once and pays for it is unlikely to do so again," the customer said. She just snorted at that.

"And a fool will make the same mistake over and over again because it's fixed in his bones," she countered. "I've already had one customer's business wasted today; I won't have another."

"As you say."

"And take off your hood. I don't do business with men who won't show their faces."

He chuckled at her.

"Fair enough. A Forossan knight doesn't reveal his face except with friends and family—"

"—but the woman who forges his sword is closer than his dam," she countered with an old saying. War was bred in the bone for Forossans, after all.

He raised gloved hands—_first-quality leather_, she observed, _but well-used—_and pulled down the scarf, before pushing back the hood. It was a strong face, square-chinned and with a generous mouth, the neatly-trimmed beard and moustache, like the chin-length hair, the color of burnished brass. Eyes the dark gray of a stormy sky assessed her reaction with amusement but also with every bit as intent the scrutiny as she was giving him.

Then he straightened slightly, and it became obvious that he'd been willfully hiding his light under a bushel. Just a slight change in stance, and yet something had _shifted_, given him a presence that all but took over the whole room.

"By Faraam," she breathed.

"I don't give myself _quite_ those airs, I hope."

"Your Majesty." She didn't drop to one knee—she was a Forossan weaponsmith and she'd have burned thrice over before she knelt to Faraam himself in her own forge—but she bowed deeply from the waist. The Ivory King had earned it of her. Obeisance paid, she straightened, then said, "So, what is it that I can do for my sovereign, and how is it that you have come to me in secret instead of just summoning me to the palace?"

"For the former, I need a sword repaired," he said. "For the latter...that is more complex than can be easily told."

"I see," she said. "Or rather, I don't, but it doesn't particularly matter. Show me the work."

The King swept aside his cloak and unstrapped a blade that was buckled to his side. The weapon was unsheathed, and it took only a moment's glance to see why. The blade was ivory white in color, like the King's namesake, but other than the unique hue had at one time been of the pattern of a standard Forossan longsword. Probably that had been the point; this blade doubtless bore unusual puissance but otherwise matched the weight, length, and balance of the kind of weapon the King had trained with.

Now, though, the ivory blade would not come close to fitting its sheath. It was warped and twisted, and moreover the end had been broken off in a ragged diagonal, shortening the weapon by a foot and a half. The King pressed it into Boldine's hands, where a quick examination only served to confirm her suspicions.

"You must be joking. This isn't something that can be _fixed_. It isn't like polishing up a nick or sharpening the edge. The blade's been completely warped out of shape. If I got it hot enough that I could hammer it back straight, metal's not meant to take that kind of stress. Honestly, I'm amazed that it's in as good condition as it is. I'm guessing there was some powerful craftsmanship put into this one, Your Majesty." She ran her thumb over the edge, feeling the leather of her work glove part almost effortlessly. Powerful indeed, to have somehow retained its sharpness under whatever had caused this damage. "Which makes my second idea fairly pointless."

"Oh?"

"To melt down the sword and reuse the metal from scratch to make a new weapon. You've lost a foot off the end there or so, but there's enough for a decent shortsword. But it won't work—or at least, it would, but you'd only gain the benefit of the base material, nothing more. There's almost no point to it. I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but it's a fool's errand."

Given that some might say Eleum Loyce itself was something of a fool's errand, a city built to hold back Old Chaos itself by a population that was willing to spend that folly in service to their King, Boldine didn't think he'd appreciate her answer. But when she looked up to the Ivory King's face as she handed back the sword, she didn't see disapproval. She saw lips set firmly in satisfaction.

"I'm glad to hear it."

"You knew?"

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile.

"I've had a blade in my hand since the age of ten when I was first named a page. Before that if you count a wooden play-sword. I may not be able to do what you can, but I know swords."

"Then why, if you'll pardon the disrespect"—her tone did not suggest she was seeking pardon for anything, but if he wanted to pay secret calls and waste her time, then he'd have to put up with some lese-majeste—"why did you ask?"

"I didn't want someone who would say yes to her King. I wanted someone who would tell the truth regardless of the stakes."

She snorted.

"Games."

"You have my apology for doubting your honor." A King's apology did not come easily, but he gave it without hesitation. "Nonetheless, I had to be sure. I did not lie; I do want you to remake the blade. And your answers tell me that you are the one to do what I intended."

He took a folded piece of paper out of his belt pouch and handed it to her. She opened it and found a rough charcoal sketch. She whistled.

"I never thought of _that_ particular solution."

"Would it work?"

"I don't know. Where's the other piece?"

He held her gaze without speaking, letting her realize what was, in retrospect, completely obvious.

"That's what you needed me for. What's it made of? For something that could match this, and if you meant the color the way you drew it, maybe geisteel? That's not going to be easy to find; the Mirrahns don't like to let any more of it out of the country than they can, for fear someone will figure a way to discover the process of making it from the finished product."

"I assumed so, but when it comes to the craftsmanship, your judgment is final."

She really wanted to say something along the lines of "Well, if you say so," but bit her tongue. His testing her still stung, but she had to allow that he'd had a point.

And he was still her king. She was going to be making a sword for the _Ivory King_ to wield. Boldine honestly couldn't say which beckoned to her more, the chance to so closely serve the founder of Eleum Loyce, or the chance to make the weapon—to bring that design to life with her own hands, her own talent. It was a sword that would be remembered, could sing in legends through the ages.

"This should cover the cost of materials," he said, handing her a leather pouch that bulged with coins. "If you need more, get word to me."

She nodded.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Then I will leave you to it. Good fortune to you, Mistress Boldine." He raised the scarf, then pulled his hood back over his head.

"Faraam bless, Your Majesty."

Then he was gone, and Boldine was left only with a burnt and warped ivory sword.

"What did this?" she wondered. "What battle did he fight that left you in this condition?"

~X X X~

_The frozen wastes of the north were a cold and empty land. Its atrocities were both natural and not, the bleak landscape offering no respite and the howling wind and the blinding, blowing snow providing no shelter. Moreso, the portal to the old Chaos beneath the surface had given rise to creatures of corrupt flame that crawled and squirmed forth to prey on those who were hardy enough to try living there. The settlers who followed the champion who became the Ivory King kept close to one another while they were traveling and building their city,, knowing that to wander alone meant merciless, brutal death._

_That the dark maiden had come as far as she had was a testament to her power—or to her luck, that ineffable quality that was inherent to humanity, to the bearers of the Dark. It was not courage that drew her, for courage was something she lacked. Rather, she was drawn onwards, through the frozen wasteland, over cold tundra and glacial ice, by something that pulled at her, a spark that drew her onward as a fish is drawn by a line._

_But she had come as far as she could manage. The cold encompassed her, its shrieking silences deeper than even her own, but it was when that cold was torn apart by a roaring heat that her will finally gave in. The beast that rose above her was crafted as if of stone, but there were seams, cracks in the rock that showed lines of living fire beneath, and she received the idea that its stone skin was not skin at all, but merely the outer shell, like lava that had cooled and hardened through exposure to the open air. Its horns were twisting and jagged, and droplets of fire dripped from a muzzle shaped something like a stag's but warped and distorted, forced wide to accommodate thick, rending fangs._

_The maiden shuddered, hugging herself as terror swept over her, and orbs of liquid darkness swelled into existence around her, spitting at the massive demon. They smashed into its chest, fragments of rock breaking off under the impact, and the beast bellowed again, smashing its splayed hooves into the ice in its fury so that fragments sprayed across her, peppering her skin. Her resistance had been a last, futile reflex, though, her spirit overwhelmed, and she dropped to her knees, utterly spent by her long ordeal and by the horror that she faced._

_The demon roared again, then bent and scooped her from the ground in one massive hand. Its fingers closed around her, squeezing, crushing. Were she as frail as her body looked she would have died; as it was, pain screamed through her, pain she could not escape, and she found that her terror was not so great that it kept her from crying out. But she had no voice, the sound found no way to leave her, until it could be held back no longer and it forced its own exit, the scream of her mind echoing voiceless across the frozen waste. A cluster of snow-birds were startled into flight when the sound that was not sound reached them, tiny monstrosities scuttled for their dens, and rodents froze, hoping only that what had caused that echo of the soul would not come for them._

_And one other heard that scream._

_Cold blue light hammered into the demon's face, causing its head to snap back from the impact of the icy magic. Its hand opened, and the maiden fell, scarcely aware of what was happening, until the hard strength of armored limbs closed around her, cradling her. The physical sensations, though, she was scarcely aware of, because even as she was embraced in her rescuer's arms, she felt a golden swirl, the burning-bright warmth of pure light closing around her, wrapping around her darkness in a blanketing light that warded away the fearful fury of the world outside._

_"Are you all right?"_

_The voice was low and deep, with a faint echo to it due to the full-face metal mask of its owner's helmet._

I...I am,_ she said, her "voice" echoing to his mind, and she found to her surprise that it was the truth, the pain in her damaged body all but stilled by the brilliant light of the man._

_"Then forgive me for letting you go, but if I don't do something about this monster, then you and I both, and a great number of people otherwise, will be very much not all right."_

_He set her down on her feet, and she trembled as his hands fell away from her, the light of his soul pulling back as he let her go. Her breath caught in her throat as he drew an ivory-bladed longsword from his hip, set his shield on his left arm, and charged. Her eyes widened in amazement at the reckless ease with which he acted, no hesitation in his movements, the sureness of purpose with which he threw himself into danger._

How can he do it?_ she thought as he faced the monstrosity three times his height. _How can anyone? _She quailed, shrinking away from the violence, dropping again to her knees as much from the terror as from her utter exhaustion, terror redoubled because it was now for two. She trembled with each sweep of the enormous claws, with every gout of flame spewed from the demon's maw that splashed against her rescuer's shield, shrank into herself until it seemed as if there would be nothing left of her._

_And yet._

_And yet with every stroke that fell against the demon's legs, with every cut that stung the beast's arms, with every lethal attack that was turned aside by the masked champion, she began to feel something else, something ineffable rising up within her._

_Until when the demon's massive hand closed around the warrior even as it had grabbed her, as it raised him high, the dark maiden did not fear. And when the warrior, even in the grasp of his enemy, raised his ivory sword high and drove it down with all of his might, spearing its point through the center of the demon's forehead and into the chaotic flame that was its purest essence, it seemed like the mere fulfillment of prophecy, so strong had that feeling grown._

_And when he came back to her, extended a hand, and helped her to rise, did Alsanna, Child of Dark, give a name to that never-before emotion._

You are my hope_, she sighed, and laid her head against him._

~X X X~

Boldine had to give the King credit: he wasn't one of those customers who would endlessly pester a smith. She knew that type all too well, always wondering when their work would be done, without any concern for how difficult the job was or what else the smith had to do. And in all fairness, this particular client couldn't be expected to even bother himself with the second concern; when one was the sovereign, one naturally and not without reason could expect his business to come first. But even so, Boldine was pleasantly surprised that the next time she saw the unmasked face of the monarch in her forge was when she had sent for him.

"So, it is done, then?"

She resisted the urge to spit into the forge. One could take independence too far.

"It is." She turned and walked over to a side table and took up a cloth-wrapped package, which she carried over to the King. She held it up, laid flat across her palms, and slowly, almost hesitantly, he turned back the flaps of cloth.

"It's not going to break, Your Majesty."

A wry smile curved his lips.

"This means a great deal to me. I'm sorry that if my concerns implied any lack of confidence in your skill."

Boldine shook her head.

"No insult taken. You're the one who has to trust your life to it, after all."

"Yes, I suppose that I will."

She quirked an eyebrow up at him. There was something in his tone of voice that suggested irony, some secondary interpretation beyond the simplest meaning of the words. Boldine thought about it for a second, then shrugged. _Eh, it's none of my concern. Kings like their secrets, after all._

He pulled back the last fold of cloth to reveal the sword. Or, perhaps more accurately, the _swords_.

There had, after all, been no way to repair the ivory blade. So instead, Boldine had left its twisted length as it was, but shaved down the hilt, stripped it of ornamentation and hand-guard, Then, with the geisteel the King's money had provided, she had forged a paired arc, longer than the ivory blade and honed to a razor's edge, a long, curving sweep of dark metal, its tip ending in a wedge that hooked back towards its pale brother, hinting at a completed circle. Its hilt was equally thin and flat, so that it mated perfectly with the remaining grip of the ivory sword. Three metal pegs had been sunk to anchor the blades together, then the dual hilts were wrapped for additional binding as well as to provide a secure grip.

The King's hand closed around the hilt, and he lifted the sword, feeling it in his hand, and Boldine couldn't resist a hint of a smirk when his eyebrows went up. The strange dual blade was lighter than it looked, scarcely heavier than the undamaged ivory sword would have been, and thus far easier to handle than it might have seemed.

"Hmm," he mused, turning away from the smith so he could make a few practice cuts into the open air. "A bit ungainly; the weight is distributed more towards the tip of the weapon than in a straight sword. It will take a dextrous hand to use it to its best effect."

Boldine snorted.

"I assume that you're up to the challenge, since you're the one who designed it that way. And your reputation speaks for itself."

He chuckled heartily.

"Reputations aren't all that they're cracked up to be. There's a reason that I started using my greatsword more often as I've aged. But yes, I think that I'm still spry enough to do what's necessary. Now, there's just one more thing to see."

He took the blade and before Boldine realized what he intended, never mind raise a protest, he slashed the edge of it across the palm of his own left hand.

"Your Majesty, if you wanted to test the edge, there are better ways."

"That's not what I'm testing." He half-turned, jaw set with purposeful intent, and thrust the sword forward in a sharp lunge. Pale gold light swirled around him, and as it passed over his wounded hand, the edges of the cut grew together and merged, as good as if it had never been sliced.

_Now_ he smiled.

"Well, it seems as if its magic has survived your reforging, Mistress Boldine."

"A sword that heals? Isn't that a little bit counter-productive?"

"Well, if that's all it did, then yes, it would be a tool, not a weapon—and frankly, a pointlessly designed tool. But this one will harm or heal as its wielder wills, which I think you'll agree is something quite different."

"It sounds a little like being a king," she said.

"It does indeed."

With a smooth motion, he swept the sword across his back and hooked the weapon into place on a harness he'd worn to carry it—_well, he drew up the concept for the thing; he'd have an idea of how he would carry it_, Boldine thought. Certainly there was no way it could be carried in a conventional sheath; it was lucky that half the blade was magical and the other half might as well be, since it would not receive any protection from the elements when carried. But then again, it wasn't like the Ivory King would spend weeks on end traveling with his weapon, like a knight-errant or a sellsword. It would probably sit in some armory, being cleaned regularly by servants except on those occasions when he took it out.

"So you're satisfied, then, Your Majesty?" she said. "It'll do for whatever you want it for?"

"Satisfied? Oh, certainly. You do superb work, Mistress Boldine. As for the sword doing what I want to achieve with it?" He paused, letting the question hang there for a moment, and the smith got the sensation that the Ivory King was steeling himself to the point, like there was some fearsome task that he needed to face up to. She wondered what it could be, what trial the knight-king could have to face that made even his courage face. "I can only hope that it will do."

~X X X~

The palace of the Ivory King was, like much of the city's construction, a bit cold and utilitarian. Oh, it was fancier than the rampart walls and garrison barracks, with polished marble and gold inlay and glorious tapestries hanging on the walls, but in the end it could not escape its origins. Eleum Loyce was a fortress, founded first to make war, then as a living seal forever watchful over the slumbering portal to Chaos, and ornamentation and creature comforts were secondary thoughts at best. Only occasional touches like a high window set with stained glass or a bowl of fresh-cut flowers lightened the heaviness, offeren moments of relief.

The tower he entered, however, was the exception.

This was the residence of nobles, of ministers and ladies, a square block with an open garden at its center where, in summer, one might sit among trees and flowers to talk or read or listen to music. Paintings, mirrors, and tapestries marked the walls, and the floors were lain with wood rather than cold stone before being covered with rugs for warmth. The King's own quarters were elsewhere, among the nobles of the sword, but here resided the courtiers, those whose gentility and wisdom made of Eleum Loyce more than merely an armed camp.

He ascended to the third, highest floor of the tower and went to a suite fixed in the corner. It was a place of luxury, but also one sheltered, out of the way from the constant hustle and bustle of traffic.

At the threshold, the King paused. He drew in a deep breath, then a second. He was _trembling_, he realized, like a boy on the verge of his first battle. But then, he supposed, only once in his life had the stakes he faced ever been higher, when he stood on the verge of Old Chaos when he first came against it and forced the portal shut, before Eleum Loyce had even been founded.

He knocked crisply, three times, on the closed door.

_Who is it?_

The "voice" echoed in his mind, no sound spoken aloud. He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, the "speech" came again.

_Oh, Your Majesty! Please, come in._

He pressed the latch and swung the door open. The King was a bit surprised to find it unlocked. He wondered if the room's occupant had been intending to go out, or if she was just starting to feel a bit more comfortable in the castle. The first two months she'd been in residence, she hadn't felt at ease unless her doors and windows were locked, even if he was there with her. There was a fear in her, he thought, one that went down to her very bones, the kind of fear that he'd seen before in those traumatized by the aftermath of war and brutality. The way in that she faced up to that fear in so much that she did spoke to a depth of courage that he could scarcely fathom.

It was one thing, after all, to find the bravery to go into battle against lethal threats. It was another when, by all evidence, one was plagued by lurking terrors every moment, as if the fabric of the world itself would hurl itself against her in violence as surely as had the demon he'd struck down to save her. He did not know the source of the fear that plagued her, and given what he'd divined of her nature, he suspected that it was much more elemental than he was capable of understanding.

He himself was renowned for his bravery, but what she did in merely existing, let along living, acting, being proactive, put him to shame.

"Alsanna," he said, smiling as he did.

They were calling her the Silent Oracle, this strange, dark lady; "silent" for the way she spoke without speaking, only for the mind of those she wanted to hear her, and "oracle" for how she could see things without being present, as she had when he'd stood outside the door.

She smiled too, greeting his presence with a gentle look. He turned and closed the door behind him, knowing that she wasn't comfortable with it open.

"It's good to see you."

_And you, Your Majesty. Are you well?_

He blinked in surprise.

"Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"

She flinched a little—just a little, but it was there, and he barely suppressed a wince. Directly challenging her like that always put her on the defensive, something he didn't want to do.

_You've seemed a bit preoccupied these past few weeks. I was worried that matters of state might be wearing upon you. And today you seem...off-balance? Yes, that describes it._

He ran a hand through the hair on the back of his head.

"Well, I suppose you aren't wrong, at that." _I don't think I've been this nervous since my first tournament after being knighted, when I was barely more than a youngling. _"I had something that I wanted to show to you."

_Really?_ She brightened, intrigued. _What is it?_

"I had my sword repaired. The one that was damaged when we first met."

_Oh? I'm glad that you were able to have it fixed. I wouldn't want you to lose it for my sake._

The King snorted.

"Nonsense; I'd happily lose a dozen blades if it meant saving you, Alsanna."

She glanced aside shyly, a faint blush giving away her feelings.

"But I am happy; I'd had that sword since I was a young knight. We've been through a lot together. But...a man changes as he grows older, and I'm not the same as I was back in those days." _Liar_, he mocked himself in his mind, as he remembered the day he'd been given the ivory sword and his fumbling attempts to talk to a pretty young damsel that evening. Some things, it seemed, had not changed. Still, he pushed on with his theme. "And it's appropriate, I think, that the sword has changed as well."

He reached behind himself and pushed his cape aside. Ordinarily, he'd never have worn a sword on his back beneath the cape; it would hinder any attempt to draw it. But in this case he'd made an exception for the sake of effect; he'd wanted to keep it hidden until the moment he was ready to show it to her. A flick of his wrist drew the sword from its harness, and he held it out, point down, turned sideways to show off the twinned blades to their fullest.

"By itself, what was left of my sword wasn't going to be much good in combat. But with this second blade added to it," he said, running his hand along the geisteel, "it will still be able to serve. In fact, I think the new sword will be even more effective than its original form. After all, I have my greatsword for those times when a straight blade is the answer."

The symbolism of dark and light being twined together, supporting one another couldn't have been more obvious. Even more, the way in which the dark blade had made the damaged ivory one useful again, able to fulfill their full potential. Alsanna was a perceptive woman; she couldn't possibly miss the implications.

And then the King's heart caught in his throat, because a surge of sudden doubt crashed over him. The problem with the obvious symbolism was that they'd never actually discussed it between themselves. Indeed, Alsanna had never alluded to her nature. It was painfully obvious to _him_, of course, that she was different from other humans, that there was a fundamental connection to the Dark in a way that everyone else lacked, a Dark so deep it was almost luminous in her soul. Yet others never seemed to take notice, not even the old high priestess Naran. _Vasnya would have seen it_, he thought, thinking of the first high priestess of Eleum Loyce, the elderly woman who'd guided him from Forossa on the first quest against the old Chaos. But Vasnya was twenty years in her grave, and it seemed that only the King himself had the sensitivity of soul to tell Alsanna's nature.

And he'd never spoken of it. He'd never wanted to force a confession out of her—it would have seemed too much like an attack. There were those who feared things of the Dark, and the King hadn't wanted to raise the idea before her that he might be one of them. Let her keep her secret, if it gave her one less thing to fear. Only here he was, bluntly calling attention to it with the nature of the sword. How stupid had he been!

He could see the emotions pass across her face, the fear arising there, but other emotions as well, a complex web of feelings that he couldn't decipher at a glance.

_It looks lovely,_ she said. _Your smith must be a Forossan, to put such beauty into a blade._

"She is." A warlike culture, where even ornamentation was married to utility for battle. Forossan armor and weapons were the sculptures of their people; one only had to look at the fantastically ornamented helms of the Lion Knights to know that.

_But what's this, here?_ Alsanna asked, reaching out to touch a spot just above the hilt.

"Ah, that." The King turned the sword so that she could read the tiny engraving, stylized calligraphy cut into the sword, wrapping around the twin blades at the last point before they separated.

_"Eleum Loyce"?_

"It's the name I've given the sword," he said. "It symbolizes this city, the bringing together of things, of people, joined in one single purpose."

_So that every time you wield it, you will remember what you have built here, and all that went into its making._

"All that we have built, all of us."

_Your Majesty, none of us who follow you would claim that. Eleum Loyce is your creation, and we are happy to do our part in building it for you._

He shook his head.

"My idea, yes, and my leadership, but not built by my hands. Perhaps in future days they will remember it that way; history always seems to tell the stories of the leaders alone, and legend even more so, but in the here and now, it is important to know the truth. We all stand together, from myself to Sir Fabian and High Priestess Naran to Mistress Boldine who forged this blade, on through to the common retainers and soldiers, to the artisans, shopkeepers, and farmers who coax a livable city from this frozen land we claim."

_And does that...is there a place among them for one such as me?_ Her "voice" was hesitant, trembling, but she scarcely had time to worry over his response, as he gave it at once without pause.

"Most certainly. There is a place for a gentle lady to take shelter within our walls, a place for an oracle to offer her sight, a place of peaceful shadows and quiet wisdom. There will always be; that is my pledge as king of this land."

And now it was his turn to be hesitant, tentative.

"But...these things are of a people, a culture. A pledge between king and follower." He shook his head. "You asked me, the king, if there was a place for you in Eleum Loyce. But as a man, not the wearer of the crown, I ask in turn: is there a place for me with you?"

Alsanna's eyes widened in confusion.

"Would you be mine, Alsanna? Not the loyal follower of a king, but my lady and my love? I know that I'm a better king than I am a lover, that I'd make a better catch for someone ambitious rather than someone who wanted words and charm, but...I would hold you and keep you close to my heart, for so long as you would allow it.

_What need have I for words? _she said. _To be held safe and loved within your embrace is all I could ever ask...my lord._

She added the final two words slowly. They were warm, as an endearment, and she offered them up as if still not sure they would be accepted, as if for all that he'd said she still could not believe that it was real. He reached for her hand, and when she did not pull away he drew her to him, closing his arms around her and clasping the dark lady to him.

"My heart is yours, Alsanna, for now and ever after."

_And I swear to you that you will never have cause to regret it,_ she whispered fiercely as their lips met.

~X X X~

_A/N: For anyone surprised that the Ivory King paid Boldine with money, not souls, I would point out that Eleum Loyce, unlike Lordran, Drangleic, and Lothric, was not then a fallen kingdom of the Undead, and so would still be following a normal economy._


End file.
